Written in the River
by Kyriana
Summary: What a difference a year makes: Abby's a happy doctor, Carter's a broken man. Will they find their way back to each other? A complete story in six chapters.
1. Bill's Place

**Written in the River**

_**A Carby Reunion Saga (Post-Season 10)**_

**_Rating:_** PG-13

**_Disclaimer:_** I claim no ownership of these characters, nor will I make any money from this writing. However, you do understand I claim the right to protect the story and dialogue in principle. It is here for the enjoyment of the fanfic community and my Carby friends at C&P and elsewhere. But if the _real_ ER folks want to read or poach, be my guest!

**_Author's Note:_** Thank you in advance for your attention and comments. Relax and enjoy.

**CHAPTER ONE: Bill's Place**

ABBY'S HEAD WAS far away. Even the rumble of the El train on the platform didn't stir her. Nor did the sound of metal on metal as the train squealed to a painful stop. Were it not for being carried onto the train by the crowd, she'd still be standing on the platform. What a day—she did her best for a steady stream of unfortunate souls who found themselves at County General today. But that pretty14-year-old girl—the one used by men like a rag doll—made her stomach ache.

And then to top it off, seeing Carter come to the ER this evening so unsteady, emotional . . . and drunk, quite frankly . . . was more than she could deal with. He turned her down when she asked him to join her at tonight's AA meeting at the Welles Street Community Center. She knew it would be good for him to remember there were other people who think booze and drugs are their friends. Only she wasn't like that anymore, and she didn't want him to be either.

THE ALCOHOL DIDN'T make Carter feel better. Nothing did. With the baby gone and Kem back in Africa, he didn't want to go home to that big, empty townhouse. He didn't want to work. His stomach was doing flip-flops from the booze he tossed back earlier, so Ike's was out of the question. As he stood on the corner just outside the ambulance bay, a taxi appeared in front of him. The driver nodded for him to get in, and Carter obeyed.

"You look like you need a ride, buddy. Where can I take you?" the driver asked while sizing up Carter through the rear-view mirror.

Carter responded with the first thing that came to his mind: "Welles Street."

ABBY SAT IN the second-floor auditorium of the Community Center like she had more times than she could count. Despite her air of indifference, she knew these people helped her, and for that she was grateful. But in recent months, the meetings became times for her to quietly study for her Medical Boards. Many times she would ponder the circulatory system, diseases of the liver, and anatomy of the brain while feigning interest in the speakers sharing their stories with the group. But now that the Boards were behind her, her mind was free to wander, and it kept coming back to the image of Carter—clearly in pain. She was all too familiar with the feeling of hopelessness she saw on his face. She'd felt that way many times before—and never wanted to feel that way again. It was the one thing she was sure of in her life. Absolutely sure. So when the person at the podium ended and stepped down, Abby saw her own hand in the air. She was ready, finally, to share her story with the group. And no one was more surprised than Abby herself.

THE TAXI ROLLED to a stop at the traffic light at the intersection of Welles and Michigan. The turning blinker snapped on and off in a hypnotic rhythm that Carter found oddly soothing. He sat back in his seat and breathed slowly, his head beginning to clear from the afternoon's binge. He caught a glimpse of himself in the taxi's rear-view mirror. He barely recognized the face that looked back at him. This man had dark, empty eyes with deep gray circles all around. His skin was pale and his expression was . . . lost. He realized that it had been a long time since he looked in the mirror and saw the optimistic young man he used to be.

"You need this meeting, John," he mumbled to himself.

"Say somethin', buddy? Are we going the wrong way?"

"No, sir. I think . . . I think this is definitely the right direction."

"HI, I'M ABBY, and I'm an alcoholic," she said using the standard AA introduction she's heard so many times.

"Hi, Abby," was the friendly but conditioned response of the group.

"I haven't had a drink in a year. But before I started again, I hadn't had a drink in six years. What made me start again . . .?"

Abby took a deep breath, closed her eyes tightly, and clenched her fists as if it would hurt physically to reveal anything about herself.

"It was a problem I've had my whole life," she continued. "It was just easier to give up on things . . . to give up on . . . me." She held her breath and opened her eyes just wide enough to peek at the audience in front of her. She saw the faces of people nodding empathetically, warm faces filled with caring. She exhaled, opened her eyes the rest of the way, and began to speak more easily.

"Growing up, my mom was sick—but she looked healthy, so it was hard for other kids to understand why she'd show up at school in the middle of the day for a picnic. They whispered and snickered when she ran naked across the football field and when she crashed my junior prom. But worse, they never understood why she'd stay in bed for weeks at a time. I learned to escape as a kid by dreaming; I learned to escape as an adult by drinking. I blamed it on my crazy mother and on my lousy marriage and later on my brother—but it wasn't their fault. I chose to drink rather than allow myself to lo . . . I mean, live."

CARTER WIPED HIS face with his handkerchief after he paid the cabby. He stood for several minutes on the steps in front of the Community Center. He dreaded stepping into that place again, searching for that hidden meeting room in the back of the building. He thought that was all behind him. All those people, all those problems. He knew they were like him—people who were suffering but not strong enough to manage without the help of a drink or a pill or more. But not Abby, he thought. Not anymore. She was beaming these days. _Funny, he thought, I used to have nightmares of Abby with a bottle in her hand. Now I can't even picture her with a wine glass._

INSIDE THE MEETING room, Abby's voice began to tremble a bit. "Well, I made a mess of my marriage. I blamed my Ex, which was easy because of all the other women. But _I_ really betrayed _him_—not with other men. It's just that there were things I didn't tell him . . . couldn't tell him."

Her voice started to quiver, and she suddenly wanted to bolt. But Abby stood firm.

"Anyway, he paid me back for all that. I had to quit school because of him, and I was angry for a long, long time."

Carter slid through the hall of the Community Center toward the auditorium. His feet dragged, his shoulders sagged. He knew the meeting would have started already by the time he got there. He hoped to slip into the back of the room without being noticed.

". . . And then I met someone, and things were really good with him," Abby recounted. "But I messed it up because I was too busy being a friend to my bottle . . . and a daughter to my mother . . . and a sister to my brother . . . and I forgot to be a friend to him."

Carter turned the corner toward the meeting room. The soft echoes of a speaker told him the meeting was under way from all the way down the hall.

". . . One day, he went away," Abby continued. "Soon after I got a letter from him. You know the kind."

The women in the audience rolled their eyes. "Yup, a _letter,_" Abby affirmed. Her audience laughed. "I knew then and there that things had to change . . . that _I_ had to change. I never took a drink, a cigarette, or a chocolate bar since then. Well, OK, I'm still working on the chocolate." They laughed warmly again.

"But I swallowed my pride and scraped together money to get back into med school. And when I was doing what _I_ wanted, everything started to fall into place. So here I am, ready to put all this behind me."

As Carter got closer to the meeting room, he realized the voice on the podium sounded familiar. It was a voice he'd heard many times—at work, at home, in his head, and next to him on his pillow whispering in his ear in the dark. He couldn't make out the words, but he was sure it was Abby.

". . . I learned a good lesson," Abby added quietly, "but it cost me a lot to learn it." She almost whispered that last part. The room grew quiet. Suddenly her cheeks felt damp, and she realized it was from her own tears. She paused to compose herself. Her throat was so tight, she had to swallow hard to relax it enough to speak. Now the audience had tears in their eyes, too. The first row leaned forward in their seats to encourage her.

"I forced myself to look at it this way . . ."

Exactly at that moment Carter slipped into the back of the auditorium, in time to hear Abby say:

". . . Getting my ex-boyfriend's letter was the best thing that ever happened to me."

And just when Carter thought his heart couldn't sink any further, it dropped through the floor.

_NEXT_

_Chapter Two: Being There_


	2. Being There

**Written in the River**

_**A Carby Reunion Saga (Post-Season 10)**_

**_Rating:_** PG-13

**_Disclaimer:_** I claim no ownership of these characters.

**_Author's Note:_** Thank you in advance for your attention and comments. Please enjoy.

**CHAPTER TWO: Being There**

CARTER SLIPPED OUT of the AA meeting and into the parking lot of the Welles Street Community Center before Abby could see him. He waited and watched Abby exit the building with a woman, whom Carter recognized as her AA sponsor. He searched his mind for her name. _Tina? Or was it Nina? _It was Nina, he decided. Abby and Nina strolled toward a corner of the parking lot where a stocky man with a leather jacket sat on a motorcycle. Carter recognized him, too; he picked up Abby that night in the ambulance bay. Only this time, it was Nina who got on the back of the bike after giving Abby a big hug.

"Guess who shared today, Jimmy?" Nina leaned around to address the biker. "Yup, Miss I-don't-talk-in-front-of-strangers-I-just-come-to-these-meetings-for-the-coffee."

"No way!" the biker teased.

"Way," Nina said, feigning shock. "And she cried real tears and everything."

"I wasn't crying!!" Abby said, laughing, her face still salty from her tears.

"Yes you were, and I'm proud of you, Kiddo. After all these years, you finally shared with the group."

Anyone could see that Abby was proud of herself.

"If you need a ride next week again, Jimmy can pick you up at the hospital. It's right on his way, so no excuses, Abby. Right, Jimbo?" Nina said, embracing the driver's neck.

"You bet, Abby—as long as you don't start _bawling_ or anything on the way," he teased.

"Why? You worried I'll get your jacket wet? Your wife tells me that jacket means more to you than she does," Abby teased back.

"Nope, she's got it all wrong. My _bike_ means more to me than she does. My jacket is a close third," he joked. Nina pretended to slap him across the head from behind, which made Abby laugh.

"You gonna be OK on the El?" Nina asked Abby.

"Sure. Thanks, you guys. Remember, you're coming for dinner Friday. Don't be late. I don't open a box of macaroni and cheese for just anybody," Abby said as she walked away toward the train station. She heard the roar of the motor as they took off on the bike, and she felt a pang of envy seeing two people so happily in love.

Carter watched the exchange from behind an old Lincoln. He noticed how carefree she seemed with her friends, how easily she smiled.

He stepped out from behind the car as she passed.

"Hey."

She turned to see him standing alone in the parking lot.

"The meetings work better when you're inside, you know," she joked before rapidly assessing his grim mood. "This is close enough for now."

"Looks like I got here too late," he lied. "No car tonight?"

"In the shop. They're holding it for ransom. I'm headed for the El."

"Me, too."

Without another word they walked together to the steps of the El train. On the platform, she couldn't help but notice that the air around him was thick with grief and sadness and something else that Abby couldn't quite put her finger on—and neither could Carter. When the train arrived in the station, they stepped on and sat silently. He seemed so alone in his thoughts. She rubbed his arm just to penetrate his solitude.

The ride on the train is short for Abby. Almost as soon as they pulled out of Welles St., they arrived at her stop. She stood, and Carter stood with her. She looked at him, and he shrugged. "I'll walk you to your door. I don't feel like going home yet. Is that OK?"

"No problem."

"Want some tea?" she said as she swung open the gate outside her building.

"I guess," he answered indifferently, though he was relieved that she asked.

"What kind of tea do you want?" she inquired as she slipped the key in the door.

She waited for his familiar response. "Whatever you're having," he answered.

Inside, Abby turned the heat on the water and then retreated to her bedroom to drop her bag, remove her shoes, and let her hair down from its ponytail. She changed into blue drawstring pants and a light blue tank top. When she came out, Carter was seated on her couch, his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands. The water kettle on the stove whistled angrily.

"Carter?" she said. "Carter, are you OK? John?"

As she approached him, she could see his shoulders shuddering. She quickly turned off the water, sat down next to him, and put her arm around his shoulder. He leaned over until his head was in her lap, and he began to sob. Here, in the warmth of Abby's living room, a place he'd been so many times before, the overwhelming tide of sadness broke loose, and Carter wept.

It seemed like hours before the sobbing stopped and he fell asleep, but it was only moments. Once asleep, he began to dream: _Carter's father was driving an old black Lincoln. Also in the front seat was his mother. His brother Bobby sat between them. Bobby was cradling a baby. Carter's baby. His son. In the back seat was Gamma, and next to her was Abby. They were pulling away, and Carter tried to catch up with them, but his legs were made of lead so he couldn't. Only Kem stood there within easy reach. When he got to her, she gave him an icy smile. He begged her to help him reach them, but she just smiled and smiled. He shook her to get her to listen. "Kem, Kem, help me," he pleaded. But she could only smile like a pretty picture._

Abby stroked his face and kept up a soft chorus of comfort. "It's OK. Things'll get better." He was mumbling restlessly in his sleep, and she brought her ear closer to try to make out what he was saying. That's when she heard: "Kem, help me."

Abby laid her head on the back of the couch. _Gee, you really must have loved her, she thought._ If it hurt, she ignored it. She never once broke the rhythm of her caresses. He deserved the kind of love he seemed to have had with Kem. She knew that.

But as long as he was asleep, it was safe to touch him and hold him, and just for a minute remember what it was like.

WHEN CARTER AWOKE, it was dawn. He found himself on Abby's sofa covered with a blanket. He could see across into her room, where she slept with the door open. She left it that way so she could hear him during the night. Carter used her bathroom to splash water on his face. Then he quickly gathered himself for his early shift.

Carter grabbed a prescription pad from his shoulder pouch and scribbled a note. He quietly entered Abby's room and walked softly over to the nightstand at the far side of her bed. He passed a tall chest of drawers with a small china bowl on top and was surprised to see his old key to her apartment exactly where he dropped it that morning he returned from Kisangani—the first time.

He carefully angled the note on Abby's nightstand to ensure she'd see it when she awoke. But before he turned to leave, he stopped to take her in with his eyes. The early morning sun was creeping in her window and cast a golden light on her face. Green embroidered butterflies on her pillowcase danced around her head. He'd almost forgotten how soft her skin was, how her hair draped over her face as she slept, and how those rosebud lips made her look so sweet. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic, and he watched her chest move up and down beneath her little blue shirt. _My God, she's beautiful, he thought._

Looking at her then, he decided he shouldn't have done it—shouldn't have unburdened all his pain upon her last night. After all, she is doing so well now without him; he heard it with his own ears. How could he have visited his grief upon her that way? But he was in so much pain these last few weeks, and letting go in her safe and familiar arms was what he needed. His heart felt lighter for the first time in weeks.

With a spring in his step, Carter left and trotted down the stairs of Abby's apartment house. He swung his jacket over his shoulders, reached for the outer door, and came face to face with Dr. Nelson, psychiatric resident at County.

_NEXT . . ._

_Chapter Three: Like Riding a Bike_


	3. Like Riding a Bike

**Written in the River**

_**A Carby Reunion Saga (Post-Season 10)**_

**_Rating:_** PG-13

**_Disclaimer:_** I claim no ownership of these characters.

**_Author's Note:_** I'm so impressed with people who take the time to read works of fiction like this and then are gracious enough to comment on it. Thank you to all those who've reviewed this work. I've read every one of your comments—every word. Please relax and enjoy this next chapter. Note the story concludes with Chapter Six.

**CHAPTER THREE: Like Riding a Bike**

_**Subtitle: You Never Forget How It Feels**_

"MORNING. IT'S CARTER, isn't it?" Nelson asked as they met in the doorway of Abby's building.

"Yes, Dr. Nelson. You've consulted for me in the ER a few times. How're you doing?"

"I'm well, thanks. Do you live in this building, Dr. Carter?"

"No, actually, I was just visiting a friend. You?"

"Same. Just visiting. _Lady_ friend," he confessed, revealing a bouquet of plump, healthy tulips he had hidden behind his back. Carter remembered that the last time he saw Dr. Nelson was during Abby's psych rotation, and the realization that he might be visiting Abby unnerved him. He stood in the doorway, subconsciously blocking Nelson's way.

"Well, I'd better get in there. I'm taking the lady to breakfast," Nelson said, hinting for Carter to step aside.

"Oh, sorry. Sure. Have a good one," Carter stammered. He let Nelson pass and felt his cheeks grow warm as he watched him disappear up the stairs toward Abby's apartment.

Abby woke with a start when she heard the doorbell. She jumped up, confused with sleep. The bell chimed insistently. "OK, I'm coming," she grumbled. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and saw the note on her nightstand. The events of the prior evening came back to her as she read it._ "Thanks for being there—Love, Carter."_ She peeked into the living room to see the blanket she covered him with neatly folded on the couch, but there was no sign of Carter.

The ringing of the doorbell turned to hard knocking, and suddenly she remembered—she had a date with Nelson for an early breakfast. She had seen him now a couple of times—once for dinner, once for lunch. _"Why not breakfast?" he suggested._ He was nice, plus she could use the ride to the hospital while her car was in the shop. She tied her robe around her waist and headed for the door. "Hi," she said, her voice still husky with sleep.

"Uh oh. Do I have the wrong day?" Nelson inquired, revealing the bouquet.

"Come in. You have the right day. I just forgot to set my alarm. I was up last night . . . comforting a sick friend."

"Practicing your patient skills? Excellent. Maybe _you_ need to be comforted this morning." He swaggered over to her, untied her robe, and slipped his hands around her waist. _Oh great, she thought to herself, he'd have to pick this morning to make his move._ She wriggled away. "I'm sorry. Can we just get going? I'm starving, and I have a shift in a couple of hours."

NELSON WAS PLEASANT company, but Abby hurried through her muffin and coffee, anxious to get to the hospital. She was worried about Carter—after all, the last time she saw him he was sobbing into her lap.

"Carter in?" she asked Jerry as soon as she arrived.

"Good morning to you, _too_, Dr. Lockhart," he responded facetiously.

She got the message. "Good morning, Jerry. Carter in?"

"Trauma 2."

She watched him through the window applying strips of Vaseline gauze to a patient's leg. Carter's face brightened when he saw her. "Finish this up, will you Morris?" He stripped off his gown and gloves and followed her into the lounge.

"How're you doing?" she asked.

"I'm fine—really," he reassured her.

"I've got 15 minutes before my shift, can you grab coffee?"

"I thought you would have had coffee with your shrink friend," Carter said with a smile, but Abby thought it a smirk.

"Nelson? He's nice—and he was a really good teacher," she said averting her eyes.

Carter regretted his remark, mostly because it prompted her to defend him.

"I'm sorry, I had no right—"

"No, it's OK. We've just gone out a few times," Abby said and quickly changed the subject. "So, are you sure you're OK?"

"I'm much better, thanks. Look, I shouldn't have done that to you last night. It wasn't . . . right."

"It's OK, Carter . . . Plus, I owed you. You rescued me from being a two-time medical school drop-out."

The comment stung. "Well, then, I guess we're even-steven," he said and turned to open his locker.

Now it was Abby's turn to regret. "John, I was kidding. I _wanted_ to help. I wanted to . . . be there."

He turned to her and smiled. "How about that coffee now?" he suggested.

"COFFEE?" SHE ASKED the next day just as Carter was about to call Kem. "Sure," he said. "I'll meet you outside." Carter felt it only right to call Kem once or twice a week since she returned to Africa. Inevitably, she was too busy to talk or was traveling to raise funds to support her AIDS program. If she managed to return his call, he was generally busy in the ER or occupied with the unwelcome burden of the Carter Foundation. And when they did connect, it was obvious there was very little to talk about. So when he called Kisangani this morning and Kem did not answer, he found himself relieved. He had coffee on his mind.

"Coffee?" he asked the following day just as Abby was putting on her jacket to meet Dr. Nelson for lunch. "Sure," she said. "Just give me a minute." She went into the lounge and called Nelson to say she was swamped in the ER and would have to take a rain check.

"Coffee?" she asked the day after that once she and Carter finally stabilized a young man with a penetrating stab wound to the heart. "And pie," he added.

He would watch her as they sat on the bench by the river or on the tall stools at the new convenience store built on the site of the former Doc Magoo's. Abby would chatter away, spewing an endless stream of anecdotes about this patient or that one, talking with ease about this diagnosis or that procedure, sharing her daily triumphs with a spark of confidence in her eyes that made him melt. Sometimes, he found himself barely listening to her, just watching her lips move and eyes sparkle as she broke into smile after smile.

Abby could tell that Carter was climbing out of his deep hole. During their coffee breaks, he'd laugh frequently about the pitfalls of home ownership—like the flooded basement, leaky roof, and bathroom plumbing disasters that befell the town home he now resided in alone. He'd share his anxiety about the overwhelming responsibilities of the Carter Foundation, and he'd listen intently to her advice. He'd talk of his mother and how he resented that she was absent—_again_—when he lost his son, and he felt better when Abby urged him to forgive her for her weaknesses. In his pensive moods, he'd quietly reflect on the unpredictability of life: _"It's funny, Abby, how things work out, right?" _

At first, Abby assumed he was lamenting his lost relationship with Kem. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, she wasn't so sure it was about Kem at all.

SOME DAYS WERE triumphant for Dr. Lockhart—some were not. That Thanksgiving Day was not. Chicago was teaming with tourists in town for holiday events in the city. In an old downtown hotel, celebrations got out of hand for a drunken father who took out his rage on his two children. His 12-year-old daughter tried to protect her 7-year-old brother by lifting him through a window and out onto a fire escape. But the boy panicked and jumped three stories. Though she tried desperately, Abby could not save him.

"Abby, it's been 41 minutes. Stop compressions," Weaver ordered.

"Don't stop! Please help him!" his sister pleaded. Abby was exhausted, her body hurt, but she pumped away at the child.

"Abby, that's enough!"

"Kerry, he's seven!"

"He's gone, Abby!" Weaver turned to the girl. "I'm sorry, sweetie. We tried to help him, but he was hurt too badly."

"_Noooooo_, please!" the girl cried.

Abby reluctantly climbed down from the stretcher, tired and panting, and went to comfort the girl. "Get away from me!" the child yelled at her. Abby froze.

Carter didn't hear what happened until the end of his shift. "Luka, have you seen Abby?"

"I saw her walk out into the bay. Maybe she just needed some air after that boy—"

Before Luka could finish, Carter headed for the door. He didn't see her in the ambulance bay. Instinct told him to head for the river. From the underpass, he spotted her by the railing of the unusually crowded promenade. Weaving his way through the tourists, he could hear his cell phone ringing in his pocket. Anxious to reach her, he ignored it.

She didn't look at him. She didn't have to. She knew he was standing behind her. He didn't say anything to her. They just looked together out onto the water, where a boat laden with fireworks was poised for a holiday display. _Aha! That accounted for the crowd, he thought. _It didn't take long before the narrow river walkway was filled with a crush of people waiting for the Thanksgiving pyrotechnics to begin. Bodies pushed and shoved in waves. Carter struggled to stay close Abby, but Abby couldn't be budged. Her hands gripped the railing. Her face was expressionless and as white as her knuckles. Carter wrapped his arms around her to keep from being swept away by the crowd. They stood together as orchestra music burst into the air. The bustling crowd grew still, and color filled the sky.

The night air was cool, but Carter's body against her made Abby feel warm all over. His arms around her were strong and comforting, and soon the tension of her day waned. She couldn't move if she wanted to—and she didn't want to.

Abby relaxed and molded her body into his. Carter responded by holding her closer—but he felt like he couldn't get close enough. She leaned her head back on his shoulder and looked up in the sky to watch the rockets exploding above them. He pressed his cheek against her hair and pulled his arms even tighter around her. She closed her eyes, savoring the closeness.

The grand finale of the fireworks display was accompanied by the music of Carter's cell phone. To answer it, he would have had to move his arm from around her. _It'll wait, he thought._

Carter and Abby walked silently hand in hand back to the hospital. Both were aware of what was happening. Both were too unsure to talk about it. When they reached the ambulance bay, Kerry burst through the doors: "Abby, let's go! You can't take a break every time something doesn't go your way. We've got a 30-year-old with a self-inflicted GSW to the head. Move it! Carter if you're off, you'd better get outta here before the next one rolls in."

Abby turned to him. "I'd better—"

Before she finished, his lips were on hers in a kiss he couldn't hold back. Abby parted her lips to kiss him back, but in an instant, the past year's events flashed before her eyes. She saw herself begging him not to return to Africa . . . Gillian handing her his letter . . . Kem pregnant with his baby.

Abby pulled away as hard as she could and ran into the ER without looking back.

"Abby, I'm sor—," he called after her, but it was too late. The ER doors opened their jaws and swallowed her.

THERE WAS NO saving the patient with the gunshot wound. Gray matter covered the gurney; there was nothing left of his cerebrum. Abby was two-for-two on this Thanksgiving Day. "Do you want to call it, Abby?" Luka asked.

"Time of death, 20:04." Abby pulled off her gloves, shed her gown, sped to the lounge, and flopped down on the couch. Luka followed her.

"Are you OK?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

She shrugged her shoulders, indicating she was not so sure.

"The boy this afternoon?"

"Yeah, and this last guy. Just 30."

"Life is hard, Abby. Some people are just too scared to face it."

"_Yes, people like me. Why am I still such a coward?" she asked herself._

"I wish I could have done something for that kid today, Luka."

"Some things you can't fix."

_Poor Luka. He would know, she thought._

"Abby, go home. You've had enough today. I'll cover for you with Weaver. It's a holiday. Get out of here and do something to make yourself feel better."

"_. . . do something to make yourself feel better."_ Luka's words echoed loudly in her head. She headed for the El.

CARTER'S TOWNHOUSE ON Cattlemen's Row was beautiful at night, Abby thought as she stood at the end of his walkway. Maybe it was the warm glow from the grand bay window. Maybe it was the reddish-brown color of the limestone. _It's not quite as beautiful as his grandmother's house, but neither is Buckingham Palace, she joked to herself. _She slowly made her way toward the front door, wishing that she had stopped home to change out of her jeans and sweater. She pressed the bell, and it seemed like an eternity before he pulled the door partly open to see her standing there.

"Abby." His heart beat faster at the sight of her. Moonlight made her face radiant. Her long, shiny hair fell loosely against her shoulders. Her breathing was fast and shallow. She seemed nervous.

She said, "I'm sorry I left that way. It's just that it's been a long time . . . and a lot has happened . . . there's so much we haven't even talked about . . . and . . ." The words weren't coming to her, so she just closed her eyes and did what she came to do. Right there in the doorway of his home, she brought her lips up to his and finished the kiss he started earlier.

He couldn't help but respond. He put one hand in her hair and the other around her waist and brought her as close as he could. Her mouth was so familiar, and her body felt so warm against his.

His lips on hers after so long took Abby's breath away. His hand rubbing the small of her back made her stomach tingle and her legs wobbly. She opened her eyes a bit and grabbed for the door to steady herself, but she only managed to push it open further. It was then that she saw the figure of a woman through the fringe of her eyelashes and quickly realized it was Kem.

_Next . . ._

Chapter Four: Big Talkers


	4. Big Talkers

**Written in the River**

_**A Carby Reunion Saga (Post-Season 10)**_

**_Rating:_ **PG-13

**_Disclaimer:_** I claim no ownership of these characters.

**_Author's Note:_** Thanks very much to all those who review this work. I wish I could send a personal comment to each of you. To answer a couple of questions: 1. Yes, I think printing the chapters and reading them slowly in a big, comfortable chair is best. 2. Are the patients anvils? Well, we'll just have to see now, won't we? . . . Have fun. Only Chapter 5 and the Epilogue to go.

**CHAPTER FOUR: BIG TALKERS**

YOUNG JOHN CARTER was a lonely boy. The death of his brother at an early age left him an only child. His grieving and self-absorbed mother and father essentially abdicated their roles as parents, leaving it to grandparents and servants.

Finding love was not easy for Carter. He sexual initiation came at the tender age of 11 at the hands of a woman of 25. More than once as an adult he mistook attraction, infatuation, and sex for love. So when he met Abby, he was not prepared for the tide of feelings he would experience. Issues of worthiness and control as well as conflicting priorities made their first year together difficult. By the end of that year, things were falling apart around Carter: His grandmother passed away, leaving the burden of his privileged heritage at his feet. And Abby, the person he needed most to help him, was in his bed but out of his reach emotionally, so he thought.

Africa and the Alliance du Medecin seemed like the answer—simple goals, worthy cause, desperate people. Every day a success in some way, since just his presence in the war-torn Congo was a blessing to the suffering.

Kem Likasu was welcome companionship for him in that lonely country. She was beautiful, happy, fulfilled, dynamic, and optimistic—but mostly, she was emotionally accessible in ways Abby was not. And then there was the physical: Kem was aggressive, strong, and wiry in bed—catlike, if you will. He had to admit, it was exciting.

However, while Kem filled his days in the Congo, Abby filled his thoughts at night. After the first few times he was intimate with Kem, he would slip away and look out his window onto the exotic African landscape and imagine himself making love to Abby. Sex with her was entirely different than with Kem. Abby's touches were slow and achingly tender; together their movements were deep and close, steadily building until they exhausted themselves. And even then he couldn't pull himself away from her, and they'd fall asleep entwined—body and mind.

But Kem would inevitably wake up, break into his thoughts, and pull him back to bed. And he'd manage to put Abby out of his mind again. Here, across oceans and continents, he was learning to accept that Abby did not love him the way he loved her, and he was tired of pretending.

Carter and Kem were careless, true. But when she announced she was pregnant, Carter thought his prayers were answered. His despair gave way to optimism, his loneliness to fulfillment. He had a purpose, and that was to be a father—to create life and nurture it the way he never was. He built a dream around Kem and the baby and pushed all else aside—friends, family, his career, and Abby.

However, when the baby died, he took the dream with him. Oh yes, Carter fought to keep Kem close enough that she'd want to try again. But the baby's death was a sign to wake up, a sign that he needed to nurture his own soul before he could nurture an infant's, and slowly Carter began to deal with the uncertainties that plagued him before he left for Africa the year before.

Over the last few months, Carter learned to see his parents as grief-stricken and lost, and he came to forgive them for their transgressions. He began to forgive himself for having expectations of others that were out of his control. He mourned his grandmother properly and found new meaning in his work in Chicago. He started growing into his responsibilities to the Foundation and reconnecting with his friends. Whereas when he left Chicago he was lost, he realized he was never found in Africa, though he was temporarily saved by Kem. But now he knew he wanted true love and a family, and he wanted them both with someone who shared his ideals and goals.

WHEN KEM CALLED his cell phone that Thanksgiving evening to say she was at the airport and on her way over, he realized it had been months since he had seen her—and even longer since they'd had a meaningful conversation. She had been in Los Angeles for a meeting of the World Health Organization's subcommittee on AIDS. She had a stopover of several hours in Chicago before catching the red-eye to London. She wanted to see him and "talk over a few things," her cell phone message said.

She certainly did. They sat together on his couch politely lamenting what could have been. But clearly she was no longer under the spell of the handsome American doctor. And, like Carter, she no longer idealized what their life would have been like. Not only had they grown apart, but Kem said she'd moved on and that she wanted him to hear it from her in person. Carter assured her that he was happy she was doing well—just as he was. But there was something else she was trying to say.

"John—"

"Kem, you're welcome to stay over. It's Thanksgiving weekend here in the U.S. I have an early shift tomorrow, but afterward we can go to the cemetery to visit the ba-"

"No, John. I can't," she said sharply. She sighed and got up from his sofa.

"John, you're not understanding me. I'm not here alone. I am with Peter—you remember Peter, don't you? From the Congolese Ministry of Finance? We are going to London—_together_."

Carter was silent. He was not upset, just surprised.

"John, there are people in our lives with whom we share a history. And it's hard to let go of them. We're the same, Peter and I. You and I . . . we want different things."

In a way he was happy for her, but hearing her say this was confirmation that his escape was truly over and he'd have to make his own way in the real world.

"I loved being with you, John. I loved being pregnant and imagining myself as a mom. And I miss our son." She sat down next to him again. "But John, I don't really want to be a mom. I want to make my program a success. I want to help my country. That's all I thought about before I met you, and that's all I think about now. Peter and I, we're the same that way."

"I get it, Kem. If you're happy, that's good." He meant it.

"Thank you, John."

"Can I ask how long you've been together?"

"A long time."

"Even while we were together . . . ?"

"He'd visit me when I was in Kisangani and you were here."

"Often?"

"Yes."

"I see," Carter said. He slapped his hands on his lap and stood quickly, indicating he'd heard enough.

"I wasn't unfaithful to you, John. I want you to know that. Peter had a wife, and things were complicated at the time. When you came along, things were just . . . easier."

He was starting to see things more clearly now.

"John, haven't you ever shared a history with someone?"

"_. . . haven't you ever shared a history with someone_?_"_ His mind drifted to Abby earlier that evening. He shouldn't have kissed her that way in the ambulance bay. There was so much he needed to say to her. Of course, she was uneasy. But being that close to her again, he just couldn't help himself.

"Peter's waiting for me," Kem said, interrupting his thoughts. "I'm just going to ring his cell phone and tell him I am on my way back to the airport. I hope you understand, John."

He did. He really did. He was not angry—in fact he was happy that both of them were getting on with their lives.

IT WAS JUST at that time that the doorbell rang. Kem had excused herself to call Peter, and Carter went to the door. He peeked and saw Abby outside. Before he could explain that Kem was visiting on her layover, Abby started talking, and the next thing he knew, they were kissing.

He was lost in their kiss when Abby saw Kem over his shoulder. He felt her body stiffen. She slid her hands between them and shoved him away with her palms.

Carter looked over his shoulder to see what Abby was a staring at—Kem was in the distance sitting on his couch and using his telephone. He looked back at Abby, then at Kem, and back at Abby. He felt panic.

"Abby, wait, you don't understand."

Abby walked slowly backward down the walkway, shaking her head the whole time. "I'm so stupid," she kept saying. "I'm so stupid."

"Abby." He followed her, but the closer he came, the faster she moved away.

"Leave me alone, Carter. I don't know why I came here." She finally turned and ran down the block toward the train.

"Abby, wait—"

"John, please, I don't have much time," Kem called from the doorway.

He looked at Kem and back at Abby, who was halfway down the block now. He threw his head back in frustration, ran his hands through his hair, and prayed for the earth to open up and swallow him.

"I'm sorry to interrupt all that, but I guess it's time for me to go. Peter's waiting," Kem said.

He hugged her. "You know, the last time I saw you, I thought I'd be spending the rest of my life with you."

"And if you had the chance now?" she asked.

He said nothing, but they both knew the answer was _no._

"Me neither," she said out loud for the both of them.

She kissed him on the cheek.

"I'd better go and meet Peter."

"I guess I have something to do, too."

"You sure do. Good luck, John." _You're going to need it, she thought._

IF CARTER HAD a limited understanding of love, Abby had even less. Raised by a mentally ill mother and without a father, Abby's impressions of romantic love came from teen magazines and television soap operas. She cultivated a taste for handsome boys and thought that as long as she was dating a "cute one" she was lucky in love. Luka was proof of that; it was Luka's striking good looks that drew her to him, whether they were right for each other or not.

Abby didn't understand why she cared so much about what happened to Carter from the time they met. She didn't understand why she sought him out when times were rough as well as when things went well. She didn't see the signs that she was falling in love, and once she did, she didn't know what to do about it. Handsome as he was, when Carter had fallen in love with her, she was the last to realize it. And when he withdrew, she didn't see it coming either.

It took his letter to make her see she didn't hold up her end of their relationship. So when he returned from Africa with Kem and a baby on the way, she could do nothing but accept the hand that fate dealt her.

After the loss of their baby, Carter and Kem were estranged, but Abby was careful not to interfere. It was not very difficult—her internship kept her busy and she was loving every minute of it. But before long, she and Carter were spending every break together, and though she tried to resist, she began to need him again. But seeing Kem at his townhouse this evening only proved to her that his kiss tonight was the kiss of a lonely man. And it hurt her.

THE NIGHT AIR was cold on her face. Abby walked toward her apartment building with an angry, forceful gait, her arms folded across her chest. From down the block she could see the figure of a man sitting on the steps of her building. As she got closer, she could tell who it was. She wasn't interested in a dramatic scene, she wasn't in the mood for confrontation or hysteria. All she knew was she didn't want him there, not tonight, not right now.

"What are you doing here, Eric?" she asked as soon as she was within earshot of him.

"That's a nice greeting for your brother on Thanksgiving."

"Most brothers would call—and they wouldn't show up at 10:00 at night."

"Wow, somebody's got a bug up her a-s-s," he spelled it out, pretending to be considerate of her neighbors.

"Look at me," she ordered, grabbing his chin in her hand and staring into his eyes. They were the eyes of instability. "You're off your meds." She sniffed. "And you've been drinking."

"Don't forget the pills. You didn't ask me if I've taken any drugs."

Even in his inebriated state, Eric could see that she'd been crying. "Something wrong, Abby?"

Her head was flooded with emotion.

"Yes, _you_," she fibbed.

"Oh yeah? You looked like you were crying before you even saw me. You're not psychic now are you, _Madame Abigail?_" he said in his best séance voice.

"Nothing's wrong—but look, you can't just show up here. We talked about this. Does Maggie know where you are?"

"Does Maggie know where you are?" He mimicked her in a girly voice. "I don't have to tell my Mommy wherever I go, do I?"

"Eric, please, you can't stay here. Not tonight. I have too much on my mind. You have to help yourself. I can't keep doing this." Her eyes were getting wetter.

Seeing her tears sobered Eric a bit.

"What's up?"

"Eric you were doing so well—I don't need this tonight." Her voice was trembling.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing, OK? I had an argument with Carter, that's all. Now let's see if we can get you a hotel—"

"I don't need a hotel. I'm staying with a friend. I just came because I needed to talk you, that's all. What do you mean an argument with Carter? Did he hurt you?"

"He didn't touch me, if that's what you mean," she said, wiping a tear from her face. "What friend do you have in Chicago?"

"A girl I met on the bus. Her name is Patsy or Patty something. Why are you crying? Tell me."

"I did something stupid. We were spending a lot of time together lately. I went to his house . . . he got this new place on the north side of Cattlemen's Row. When I got there—"

_Why was she telling him all this?_ "You're going to stay in Chicago with a girl you just met on the _bus_?"

"She's friendly. She's from St. Paul, but she got a place here last year. We just came from the fireworks show. It was a blast—get it? _Blast_. I got this there."

He held up a noisemaker in the shape of a pumpkin. He shook it, and it made a loud ringing sound.

"Put that down. I have neighbors, you know." She slapped it out of his hands.

"Patty liked it. Patsy. Patty. Whatever. What happened when you got to Carter's?"

Abby rolled her eyes and kicked at the ground with her shoe. Her chin quivering, she reluctantly told him: "His girlfriend was there. The baby's mother. The one he met in Africa." Almost to herself, she added, "Why would he do that to me? He kissed me first."

Even in his state, he was moved by her sadness and troubled by her vulnerability.

"Eric, do me a favor and pull yourself together, OK? You can stay here for tonight—but for tonight _only_. I have some cold cuts."

"I told you, I've got a place—"

"Then come back tomorrow, and we'll talk. I'm going upstairs."

"OK, OK."

"And don't make any more friends!" she yelled after him.

Eric watched her until she disappeared into her building and then headed for the El on unsteady feet.

ONCE INSIDE, ABBY changed into her drawstring pants and cuddled up on her couch with the beige throw blanket Maggie sent her—the same one she used to cover Carter the night he came over and cried in her arms. She felt lonely—and sorry for herself. She was angry and embarrassed, but mostly she was surprised at how much she really wanted to kiss Carter tonight, and that frightened her.

Outside her door, she heard the chimes of the pumpkin noisemaker, and she grew angry. She was hoping she would not have to deal with Eric tonight, but that seemed too good to be true. There was a knock. "Make up your mind, are you sleeping here or not!" she ranted as she flung open the door.

"If I have a choice, I'll pick _yes_," Carter said matter-of-factly.

She didn't expect to see him and instinctively wiped her face to erase any sign of tears.

"Drop this?" he asked, holding up the pumpkin noisemaker.

She reached for it. "My brother's. He's in town."

"Is he OK?"

"Off his meds and drunk."

"I'm sorry. I thought he was doing better than that. Where's he now?"

"Staying with a friend."

"May I come in?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Abby, please, I want to talk to you," he said stepping inside.

She closed the door behind him and said, "Carter, you don't have to explain why Kem was there. In fact, I'm sorry I was rude to her and ran off. What I don't understand is what happened today. All I know is, it won't happen again."

"Abby, you don't understand. I haven't seen or spoken to Kem in months—"

"I get it. You miss her. You're lonely. Find another substitute, will you? Not me."

"Kem is gone, Abby. That was her on my cell phone this evening telling me she was at the airport." He followed her around her apartment from corner to corner as she pretended to straighten up but was really just expending nervous energy.

"She had a stopover on her way to London, and she wanted to talk. She's back with her boyfriend—a guy she was with when we met. Abby, she was here to say good-bye."

Abby stopped dead and was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry, Carter. You don't deserve to have your heart broken—but neither do I."

"Abby, you're not getting me." He was frustrated now. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward him. "It's been over between me and Kem for a long time. It never really even began."

"I'm not crazy, Carter," she said, insulted that he thought she would believe such a statement. "I've _seen_ you together. You couldn't take your hands off her. You two were going to have a baby, for goodness' sake. What do you mean, '_It never really began?'_"

He sat down on her couch. "The baby was an accident. But you're right, if he had lived, maybe she and I would be together right now—still pretending we were right for each other, the exotic African beauty and the idealistic American doctor."

Abby was confused and losing patience. This was more than she should have to hear.

"Abby, before I went to Africa, everything felt wrong. Gamma died, and she left me in charge of the Foundation—something I was dreading since I was a kid. My parents were off in their own hell somewhere. You and I weren't . . . connecting."

He was rubbing his face in frustration, but he didn't look at her.

"The thing is, I never stopped . . . wanting you there. I wanted you to understand what I was going through, help me out a little—nothing big. Just stand by me, for God's sake. I did that for you, you know? Whenever you needed me I was there."

"I know, I felt awful about how I acted when you're grandmother died, but—"

She plopped down on the far corner of the couch.

"—you told me to leave you alone, John. And then you went away with hardly a word."

"I needed to figure things out. That's how I do things."

"I was upset," Abby explained. "I was angry. You left me—and you broke your promise."

She looked genuinely hurt, he thought.

"You said right over there at that table that you weren't going anywhere," she pointed to her round, wooden dinette set. "And I believed you."

"I didn't want to leave, Abby. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. You know that. But I didn't want to do it as a bystander." He banged his fist on the arm of the sofa. "You never let me in, Abby, not about your drinking, not with your family. I never felt part of your life."

She was surprised. _Why would he want to be involved in the crap my family gives me?_

"And despite that, I came back from Africa the first time convinced everything would be OK. I missed you. But when you asked for the key back, what was I supposed to think?"

"But later I begged you to stay—"

"So, you didn't want me to get killed."

She stood up. "Then you broke up with me in a letter!"

He sighed and looked away from her. "I'm sorry. I was afraid if I called and heard your voice, I wouldn't say . . . what I had to say."

"What? That I wasn't good enough for you and that you met someone who was?"

"That's not what I meant, and I didn't meet Kem until months later."

"That letter . . . it hurt me, Carter." She went to the kitchen.

He hated the look on her face, mostly because he caused it.

He followed her. "But you're happy now—and a doctor. The letter was the best thing that ever happened to you, I heard you say it."

She was stunned. She turned around to him: "You heard that?"

"Yes."

"You told me you didn't get to that AA meeting on time."

"I got there just in time to hear that."

"So you didn't hear before that . . . when I said how good things were with you?"

"No, I didn't hear that." His heart started to ache.

They were silent for a while. She ran the water, intending to wash a dish. "Carter, everybody in the ER read the letter, " she said softly. "Were you trying to hurt me?"

"No, I wasn't—" He sighed. "OK, maybe a little. I was angry. I . . . I was in love with you, Abby. And I guess I was mad that . . . you didn't love me back."

"I never said I didn't—"

She moved into her bedroom, and he followed.

"It was a tough time for me," Carter explained. "I just needed somebody. That's when I met Kem. The baby—that just happened."

He reached for her arm. "Before I went to Africa, I was sure that if I ever had kids, it would be with you—"

"I told you . . ." She jerked her arm away. "I told you, you don't want me t-to . . . love you." She started to cry.

"Oh no? What if I told you it was just about the only thing I _ever_ wanted?"

"You want to be a father, John, I can't do that for you."

"Why?"

"You _know _why. You saw what happened to my mother and now my brother. I can't take a chance."

"Abby, you don't know what you're talking about. You'd feel differently if you were pregnant. Once a baby is inside you—"

"I _do_ know Carter. I _was_ pregnant!" she shouted, surprising even herself.

Carter stopped breathing for a moment. His mouth formed the words _"When? Who?"_ but no sound came out.

"Not yours, Richard's," she said lowering her eyes.

He sat down on her bed. "What happened?" he asked softly.

She just stared at him for a long moment, her chin quivering. And then he realized: She had ended it. She'd had an abortion.

Abby saw the look of realization on his face. He finally knew her secret. All barriers were broken, and she was terrified._ How must he feel about me?_

"I had a baby inside me—_my_ baby. I was so scared, but how could I—"

He didn't know what to say.

"I wasn't a teenager afraid to tell her parents. I wasn't poor. I wasn't raped, and the baby wasn't sick—as far as I knew. I was a married woman, and that child had a father."

"What did Richard say?"

Again, she just looked at him, hoping he could see the answer in her eyes without her having to say out loud what she did—or didn't—do.

"You never told him," he surmised.

"You see what kind of person I am?" she cried. "I deserved every bad thing that ever happened to me from that moment on. I sure as hell didn't deserve you."

Things were getting clearer to him.

"Abby, don't say that." This was an Abby he never saw before—frightened and trembling with emotion. He stood, put his arms around her, and pressed his lips against the top of her head. "You were scared. You couldn't depend on Richard. You did what you thought you had to do," he comforted her.

She curled her arms around his waist and leaned against him.

"Have you ever talked about this with anyone?" he asked.

"I told Maggie."

"You told your mother?"

"Yes, and for the first time in my life, she hugged me . . . like a real mom."

Carter was overcome with sadness for her . . . for him . . . for them. _All the pain she went through alone, he thought. All those wasted years of not understanding each other. _

"Are you, OK?" he whispered to her.

It would have been easier to dry her eyes, say _"yes, I'm fine,"_ and make this horrible evening just go away. But she was tired of hiding from him. Look where it got them: They were in a never-ending cycle of misunderstanding, miscommunication, and missed opportunities.

"Abby—?"

She shook her head _no_. Her sniffles turned to a hard cry.

Carter dropped down on her bed and gently pulled her down with him. He wrapped himself around her and wound his legs in hers, and let her cry.

Abby lay against him for a long time. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, and his fingertips stroked her neck as he whispered in her ear, _"Ssssshhhhhh baby, it's OK now."_ But she could hardly hear him over her whimpers. Her body jerked with sobs, and she struggled to catch her breath. Her face and the hair around it were soaked with her tears. She wasn't a pretty picture, but at that moment, she never looked more beautiful to him because, finally, he saw her inside as clearly as outside. He knew her through and through. He understood her completely. And he never loved her more.

_Next . . ._

_Chapter Five: Avenging Angel_


	5. Avenging Angel

**Written in the River**

_**A Carby Reunion Saga (Post-Season 10)**_

**_Rating:_** PG-13

**_Disclaimer:_** I claim no ownership of these characters.

**_Author's Note: _**Well, I went from being shy about writing for you to being anxious to read your comments. I hope you enjoy this next installment. I'll wrap things up in the forthcoming chapter. Please enjoy.

**CHAPTER FIVE: AVENGING ANGEL**

_**Subtitle: I-L-U-I-L-U-2**_

CARTER HAD AN early shift that morning. He woke in the depths of darkness at 4:30 a.m. with Abby in his arms. He had napped on and off for the past few hours, but he was too worried about her to sleep soundly. She had fallen asleep amidst a torrent of tears, but she seemed content curled up next to him now. Her hand still clasped a fistful of his shirt, but her face looked peaceful. Periodically during the night he'd check her breathing, feel her temperature, and put his fingers to her wrist to check her pulse—just to be sure.

Now he tried to slip out of bed without waking her, but they were so entwined it was impossible.

"Where are you going?" she said as soon as he stirred.

"I'm on at 6. I'm covering the shift change for Pratt. I've got to get home to change and shave. Are you going to be OK?"

"Yes, I think so," she said rolling onto her back, one arm covering her eyes.

"You can come home with me, if you want," he said untangling himself from her and swinging his legs onto the floor.

"No, I'm better, thanks."

She sat up on her elbows. He turned to face her.

"I'm sorry about last night," she said. Her voice was hardly above a whisper. Her eyes were barely open. They were swollen from crying and a little crusty around her overused tear ducts. Strings of hair hung sloppily around her face and shoulders, and a piece of it wound into the corner of her mouth. Salt from her tears had dried into powdery streaks on her cheeks. _She looks so pretty when she wakes up, Carter thought._

"I'm not sorry," he said. "There was a lot we needed to say. I'm not sorry at all," he assured her.

A slip of her hand through her hair, a tissue across her face and eyes, a sip of water from her nightstand, and suddenly she was indeed breathtaking. She still wore the sweater from the night before, only it was twisted and fell off her shoulder showing her bare skin, and the buttons were open just enough to see the lace of her bra. She half-smiled through her barely opened eyes. He smiled back and kissed her forehead and then her lips. She lowered herself back on her pillow and he leaned over with her, unwilling to break the kiss. She wrapped her arms around him, and her fingers lightly touched his hair. They kissed deeply.

His lips moved to the base of her neck and then lower to the top of her breasts. Abby closed her eyes and enjoyed the familiar warmth of him. It had been a long time since she'd felt his lips on her. His hand brushed her cheek, and then his fingertip traced a line down her shoulder over the curve of her breast past her hips to her thighs.

She begged herself to let go and enjoy him—but ultimately she couldn't. Images of the past year were too fresh. The air was thick with her confession last night. She needed to talk to him more, to know how he felt about her and her past. She needed to think about all the things they said to each other just a few hours before.

"John, wait—" She pulled back, clenched her legs, and pulled the covers up to her neck. "I'm sorry. I just—"

"It's OK, It's all right." He moved off of her, stood up, turned away from her, and breathed deeply trying to control the passion she raised in him. "We'll take it slow, OK? How about dinner tonight?"

She nodded yes and clutched the blankets close to her. She watched from her pillow as he tried to find the shoes he kicked off in the middle of the night and gathered his jacket to leave. But before he walked out into the early morning darkness, he sat on the bed again.

"I've got to go," he said, tracing her lips with his fingertip.

"I know." She smiled sweetly.

"You sure you're OK?"

She nodded yes.

They were quiet for a moment. He brushed a piece of hair out of her eyes and said, "I love you, Abby." He was never so certain of anything in his life.

She reached up to stroke his cheek, now rough with almost a night's worth of beard.

"You do?" she asked softly, thinking how handsome he was and how much she had missed him.

"Always have."

_Tell him how you feel. SAY IT!, she implored herself._

Instead, she only managed, "I'm on at 8. See you then."

He got up and left, carefully closing the door to her apartment so as not to disturb her neighbors.

Frustrated with herself, she exhaled out her lower lip and blew the bangs off her forehead.

Alone now in the dark, empty apartment, Abby thought sleep would overtake her again quickly, but it didn't. So she slid over a few inches in her bed to the warm spot where he had slept. She positioned her body in his place, carefully cradling her head on his pillow in the indentation where his head lay moments before. Her fingertips caressed the sheets around where he had slept. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the essence of him, and drifted off to catch forty winks more.

Abby was in love.

THE STREETS WERE quiet and dark at this time of the morning, and the air was cold and biting. Carter pulled his collar tightly around his neck and waited at the corner until he spotted a roaming taxi cab. Inside, amber streetlights filled the seat. He leaned his head against the window, and his thoughts immediately went to Abby. He didn't want to rush her; he knew she needed time. For now, he would have to be satisfied with remembering . . .

He thought of the evenings at her apartment when he'd order a pizza and they'd lie on her couch watching TV until the closeness was too much for him and he'd have to kiss her. And there were the mornings at his place when he'd distract her from getting dressed to make love to her in his large tiled shower with the hot water beating down on them. And then there were the times they'd sneak off and spend a cold afternoon in her warm bed.

He loved how playful she was after sex, how she'd let her guard down—even if it were just for a few minutes. She'd sing and laugh, and all her cares would disappear. However, he had to admit he liked it best when the playtime interlude was over: Her eyes would get softer and dreamier, and her lips would kiss a path from his mouth to his ear, and then she'd moan softly that she wanted more.

Carter shook himself out of his reverie just in time to instruct the cabby. "The north side, please," Carter requested when they pulled onto his short but very posh block. "Right here's fine," he said when they just about reached the iron post at the foot of his walkway from which hung a simple mailbox labeled _"Carter"_ in modest gold lettering. No other cars roamed the street. It was the dead of night. The cab came to a short stop, and the driver turned on the interior light, illuminating the entire back seat and just about blinding Carter momentarily. He paid the fare, included a generous tip, and headed for his door.

Then it all happened so fast. Carter felt the very first blow in his stomach, then another to his head, and then the sharp pain in his ribs came repeatedly. It was the point of a boot.

"Get up, Carter, get up!"

He heard the voice yelling at him in the dark. The throbbing in his head got louder, and the voice screaming at him in an intoxicated rage grew cloudier.

"Say you won't hurt her anymore. I _need_ to hear you _say_ it!" Each request was punctuated by a strong kick and drunken grunt.

Carter tried to speak, but he only gurgled through the blood pooling in his throat. It tasted foul and was making him retch. He could make out the heel of a boot coming straight toward his head. And just before things went black, he could see the boot belonged to Abby's brother Eric.

IT WAS BARELY sunrise, and the early morning Chicago air was blustery. Pratt's overnight shift was ending, and he stepped outside to watch the first blades of light emerge in the sky. An ambulance pulled into the bay with lights flashing but sirens silenced. The paramedic burst out the rear door and called to him: "Hey Dr. Pratt, we got one o' yours." He pulled out a stretcher on which Carter lay strapped.

Pratt ran over. "Carter, can you hear me?" he shouted, removing his stethoscope from the pocket of his jacket and plugging it into his ears. "What the hell happened?" he said to the medic.

"Neighbor walking a dog found him on his stoop and called 9-1-1. Somebody beat the crap out him. Cops are behind us, they wanna talk to him, but he's out cold." He started to recite Carter's vitals as they quickly wheeled him toward the ER.

"Why would somebody want to beat up a doc?" the medic asked.

"I know why someone might want a piece o' _this_ one. Maybe for his big, fat wallet," Pratt remarked.

"Yeah, you mean this?" The paramedic dug Carter's wallet from his pocket, fully intact and undisturbed.

"What the—?" said Pratt, and they disappeared into the ER.

Once inside, Pratt began to bark orders to the staff: "Jerry, what's open?"

"I don't know, I just got here," Jerry snapped back.

"Thanks—_for nothing_." Pratt, a little rattled, mumbled the last part to himself. "Follow me." Pratt led them into Exam 2. He and the paramedics pulled Carter from the stretcher to the bed and began working.

"Good breath sounds, pulse 92. Carter, can you hear me?" Pratt asked insistently as he shined a small light into his patient's eyes. "Pupils equal and reactive," he called out. "Get an I.V. started and hang two units of O-neg, but don't push it until I see where all this blood is coming from," he ordered Haleh. "Let me get an ultrasound on his belly, a C-spine, and a portable chest. And somebody tell Morris to get his butt in here and gimme a hand!"

Tension hung in the air as the team poked and prodded Carter to bring him around.

"Carter? Carter, wake up," Pratt ordered.

"Dr. Carter? Dr. Carter, wake up," Morris said, trying to appear engaged by following Pratt's lead.

"What the hell—? Do I need a echo in here?" a panicked Pratt remarked.

"Well, why won't he wake up?" Morris asked.

"I don't know. We need to get a head CT stat."

ABBY THOUGHT SHE'D get in a little early and meet up with Carter. She walked through the ambulance bay a little bleary-eyed, with a cup of coffee in each hand—one for each of them. Abby stepped through the ER doors just as Pratt and the team were wheeling Carter past.

"What's going on?" Abby asked, a bit dazed.

"Keep going, I'll catch up," Pratt ordered as the others continued to push the stretcher down the hall. "Somebody used Carter as a punching bag."

Abby was confused.

"A neighbor on that fancy block of his found him and called 9-1-1."

Abby was having trouble grasping all this.

Seeing her reaction, Pratt squeezed her shoulders and said earnestly, "Look, his vitals are good, we just can't get him up and talking. We're doing a CT now to see why. We're taking good care of him. Go to work, OK? I can't save the world alone." He headed down the hall.

It started sinking in. Carter was hurt—badly. And his co-workers were trying to help.

"I thought you'd be off duty by now," Abby called after Pratt.

He turned but continued walking backward. "Yeah, well, Carter needs my superior skills." He winked at her, but she knew his cockiness belied his concern.

It was all happening so fast. She just saw him a few hours ago. _What happened? Who did this?_ Her mind raced with questions. Abby's feet were glued to the floor, and she stood there by the ER doors with a coffee in each hand, not knowing what to do first.

Behind her, two uniformed police officers entered the ER.

"Do you work here?"

She turned to face them, still balancing the two cups. "Yes, I'm Dr. Lockhart, I just came on duty.

"Dr. Lockhart, we're looking for the assault victim from Cattlemen's Row," one asked her.

"They brought him to CT. What happened? Do they know who did it?" Abby asked.

"Neighbors said they saw a white male leave the scene." He checked his notes. "Late twenties/early thirties—over six feet with curly brown hair," he read. "One said he had a bloody hand and he looked like he was staggering. They saw the same guy hanging around late last night."

"Let us know if someone matching that description shows up here for stitching," the other officer requested.

"_. . . Late twenties/early thirties—over six feet with curly brown hair."_ Abby felt a brick in the pit of her stomach. _No, never, he wouldn't . . ._

ABBY RAN TO Exam 2 when she heard Carter had returned from radiology.

"Is he conscious?" she asked as she burst through the doors.

"He's in and out," Pratt said.

"You think there's anybody he wants us to call?" Haleh asked.

"If he doesn't come to in a while, I'll call his dad," Abby volunteered. "How is he otherwise?"

Pratt gave her the rundown: "CT and spine films are clear. X-rays show a cracked rib and slight orbital fracture, which explains that Mike Tyson eye, but nothing else is broken. But we're concerned because he's still woozy, and that could indicate some brain swelling or a bleeder that's not showing up on the CT. So we'll watch him for a while."

Chuny peeked in: "I'm sorry, Abby, but we got a high-speed MVA coming in, and they need another doc," she said softly.

"I got it," said Pratt, following Chuny out the door. "You hang out here with Carter a while. I'll find you if I need you."

"Thanks, Greg."

It took another hour or so for Carter to start to come around. As Abby waited, she listened to his breath sounds, watched his monitors, and double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked his I.V. lines. And when she could do no more, she pulled a chair over by his side and took his hand.

Eventually, his eyelids began to flutter. She got up, leaned out the doors of the exam room, and spotted Haleh. "Could you see if Pratt's around?"

"He's in Trauma 2 with that MVA, but I'll tell him to come in as soon as he can."

Abby removed her own stethoscope and listened to Carter's chest. She noticed his eye was even more swollen and getting blacker.

"Carter, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand."

He did.

"John, do you know what happened? Did you see who did this?" He cracked opened his eyes and nodded once indicating he did.

She got much closer and reluctantly asked, "It wasn't . . . Eric . . . was it?"

His eyes opened wider, and his hand gripped hers tighter. He nodded his head "yes."

Tears came to her eyes, and she started explaining quickly. "John, he showed up at my apartment last night. I just came from your place. I told him where it was and that I saw Kem there and I was upset. He was off his meds and drinking to boot—maybe even doing drugs. He was cycling down. I should have seen it. He must have been waiting for you. But I just can't picture Eric . . . hurting someone. Maggie used to get violent. She tried to kill me with a knife once. It was Thanksgiving then, too."

He could hardly understand her, and it hurt to try. "It's OK," he whispered and began to drift off to sleep again.

_Why would you want any part of this?, she thought._ She leaned down close to him, wiping her teary eyes. "John? . . . John? . . . I'm sorry for everything." And when she felt sure he was asleep, she kissed the side of his face and whispered in his ear, "I love you, too."

When she pulled her lips away, she could see his eyes were closed, but the corners of his mouth were turned up in an unmistakable smile.

"Chicken," he whispered.

He knew her so well.

"I've got to find him, Carter." She stood and started for the wall phone in the room.

"Abby . . . no . . . let him . . . calm down." He was weak, and the words came out slowly. She could tell he was frightened for her.

Haleh peeked her head through the swinging door. "Let him rest, honey. He'll be OK."

She stepped farther in and said softly to Abby, "Thought you'd want to know, I heard the cops just brought in the SOB they think did this to Carter—DOA with a bullet in the head."

Abby gasped so hard, she was unable to exhale. "Oh my God . . . ," she moaned. From the table, Carter's hand struggled to reach for her. "Oh my God, they _shot_ him?" she asked, desperately hoping she heard wrong.

"I don't think so, honey. They said the hole was through the roof of the mouth."

Abby pushed Haleh aside, ran to the bathroom, and vomited in a bowl until she passed out.

_Next . . ._

_Epilogue—The Wake of the Tornado_


	6. The Wake of the Tornado

**Written in the River**

_**A Carby Reunion Saga (Post-Season 10)**_

**_Rating:_** PG-13

**_Disclaimer:_** I claim no ownership of these characters.

**_Author's Note:_** Thanks to those who have taken the time to read—and also comment—on this story. I feel like I have made new friends. Now that it's complete, if there are any comments you'd like add, please do. As usual, I read all your input. Thank you so very much.

**CHAPTER SIX: THE WAKE OF THE TORNADO (Final Chapter)**

**Note: This is the full-length, uncut version of this chapter.**

"I'm sorry for your loss, Maggie," Carter said to Abby's mother as he shielded his eyes from the cold, blustery wind. She was walking away from Eric's gravesite just as Carter was approaching. The dark shadow around Carter's fractured eye socket was the only evidence of the incident preceding Eric's suicide—if you don't count the cracked rib that made it too painful for him to drive. Carter had to enlist the services of Alger, his family's chauffeur, whose company Carter rather enjoyed.

"Thank you, John," Maggie answered, struggling to keep her hair from blowing in her eyes.

Carter could see Abby several yards beyond Maggie. She stood alone at the edge of the hole in the ground where her brother lay as the diggers prepared to cover him with earth. Abby wanted Eric buried near her in Chicago despite the fact that none of his friends would be able to attend—if he even had any friends anymore. She didn't even want anyone from the hospital to come, and that worried Carter.

"How is she?" he asked Maggie.

"Hurt. Sad. Guilty. I hope she'll be all right. We've already said our good-byes. I'm heading back to Minnesota now. I have a taxi waiting to take me to the bus—"

"You're not staying with her for a while?"

"No, I have to get back for my therapy sessions. I think it's important—for Abby. She's afraid that if I miss any . . . Well, you know, she doesn't want to go through this again."

"Certainly. Well, it was good to see you, Maggie."

"And you too, John." She walked away but turned back to speak to him: "John, I don't know what happened last year between you two. I hope I didn't have anything to do with it."

"It was a lot of things, Maggie. But we're working it out."

"I'm sorry for what Eric did to you, John. He loved Abby so much, and in his state of mind, he just wanted to make sure no one would hurt her once he was . . . gone."

"I know. It was the disease."

"I'm sorry for what you went through also—with your son. It's a terrible thing to lose a child." She brought a handkerchief to her nose to catch her sniffles, but the wind kept whipping it across her face. "But I wish you the best, John. I really do."

He walked over and hugged her. Even over the howling wind, he could hear her whimpering as she headed for the taxi.

Now, Carter took a deep breath and headed toward Abby. He didn't know what to expect, but based on the last couple of days, he had a feeling it wasn't going to be good.

IT DIDN'T TAKE long for the mystery of what happened between Carter and Eric to be unraveled at County. Eric waited for Carter and attacked him in the wee hours of the morning before turning a gun on himself. Later that morning, Susan found Abby in the bathroom—sweaty, lightheaded, and sick to her stomach at the news of her brother's death. They filled Abby with fluids and made sure she got home. Carter, who had trouble maintaining consciousness, was admitted to the ICU for observation and remained there overnight.

By morning, Carter was much better—aside from the painful rib that prevented him from driving. He had Alger take him straight to Abby's as soon as he was discharged. He took the painful walk up the stairs to her apartment, only to discover she wasn't home.

Back in the car, he called the ER.

"Susan, is that you? It's Carter. Any idea where Abby is?"

"Yup, she's here—working."

"What?"

"I told her to go home, but she won't listen."

"What the hell is she thinking?" he mumbled to himself when he hung up with Susan.

"We're going back to County, Alger. Ms. Lockhart has decided to work a shift today."

"Yes, sir."

"WHY ARE YOU here?" he asked Abby when he found her.

"Why not?"

"Aren't there more important things for you to take care of?"

"I'm not planning a wake for my brother, if that's what you mean. He blew his head off, remember?" Abby's eyes were like steel. She turned and walked away from him.

"Hey." He stepped in her path and put his arms on her shoulders. "I know you're upset, but what is this?"

She stared at the floor. "If you don't mind, I have an elderly woman with a hip fracture in Trauma 1."

He hadn't seen _this_ Abby for quite a while, but he remembered her well. He let her go but followed her.

Inside the trauma room, Abby ran the exam. "I'm going to need films on this pelvis stat. And run in a liter of saline, she's dehydrated. Am I ever going to get a BP?"

"As soon as I run the drip," Lydia responded.

"I need a BP now—do I have to do it myself?" she grumbled.

"Abby—" Carter tried to calm her.

Lydia walked out of the trauma room calling for Susan: "Dr. Lewis?" Carter knew Lydia was not about to tolerate Abby's ill temper.

"Is this your mother?" Abby asked of the worried woman standing in the room holding a small girl.

"Grandmother—she fell down the stairs when I wasn't looking. I just walked away for a minute."

"Well, she shouldn't be left alone."

"We have a homecare worker during the day, but she called in sick. I have a three-year-old who's pretty active. I was watching as best I could."

"Well you weren't watching carefully enough, were you?"

Susan burst in, "Abby, out."

"This is my patient, Susan. She is clearly not getting the supervision she needs at home."

Abby turned back to the patient's granddaughter: "Ma'am if you can't do it, she shouldn't be with you."

"But I love my grandmother!" the woman cried.

"Carter, get her out of here," Susan ordered.

Before Carter could respond, Abby stripped off her gloves and gown and pushed angrily through the doors and out into the drug lockup. Carter followed.

Abby began to rant. "That woman should have known—"

"—What are you doing?" Carter interrupted. "She's worried about her grandmother, and you're making it worse," he told her.

"I'm just trying to look out for my patient."

"I've never seen you talk to a patient's family that way."

She leaned against a cabinet, sulking.

He softened. He was worried about her. He brushed a piece of hair out of her eyes. "Look, you're upset. It's understandable. Let's get out of here, OK?" He leaned down to plant a calming kiss on her lips.

She turned her face away. "I'm fine," she said and went back to work.

Carter threw back his head in frustration and walked out of the lockup. When he emerged, Susan was there.

"Carter, why don't you go home and get some rest. Maybe she just needs to keep busy. I, on the other hand, could use a long, hot bath."

"Baby keeping you up?"

"She wails like a fire engine all night long. But she's so cute, so I don't mind—until I have to get up in the morning."

He smiled.

"Go home, Carter," she said, pressing the orbital bones around his eye to check his injury. "I'll keep tabs on Abby."

THAT EVENING, ABBY never turned on the lights in her apartment. She sat in the dark haunted by the last conversation she had with Eric.

"_What are you doing here?"_

"_That's a nice greeting for your brother on Thanksgiving."_

She turned off her phone so she couldn't hear it ring and lowered the volume on the answering machine so she wouldn't hear voices.

"_You're off your meds—and you've been drinking."_

"_Don't forget the pills, you didn't ask me if I've taken any drugs."_

But over the next few hours, the display on her answering machine went from flashing "0-0-0-0" to "1-1-1-1" and then "3-3-3-3" and then "5-5-5-5."

"_Now let's see if we can get you a hotel—"_

"_I don't need a hotel. I'm staying with a friend. I just came because I needed to talk you." _

In the middle of the night, she listened to five messages from Carter.

_Beep._

"Hey, it's me. Are you home?"

_Beep._

"Abby, if you're there, pick up."

_Beep._

"Are you still planning on having the funeral tomorrow at 10?"

_Beep._

"Call me, please."

_Beep._

"Abby, don't do this—"

AND NOW HERE they were at the cemetery burying her brother. Storm clouds gathered all around. An unforgiving wind whipped at her long, loose hair. And then the rain started. He approached her. She stared at the ground as workers unceremoniously poured soil on the dark brown box. She was stone-faced.

"You didn't need to come," she said without turning to him.

"I would have been here sooner but I had to—"

"Don't worry about it."

"I had to get this rib checked and—"

"I _said_ don't _worry_ about it."

"I've been calling you," he said, still addressing her back.

"I know."

He was trying hard to hide his impatience. "I'm worried about you."

"There's no reason to be. I've been ready for this for years, Carter. I just thought it would be Maggie."

"Abby, don't do this."

"How're you healing up?" she said, changing the subject.

"Abby—"

"Look, I was due, Carter."

"You were _due_?"

"Yes. Something was bound to happen."

Her cold face showed empty eyes. She never once turned to look at him.

_Déjas vu._

"Abby, I know you're hurting, but don't wall yourself up again. Please."

She was like a rock. She didn't move. The wall was already built—and it was impenetrable.

He walked up closer and touched her shoulder.

She pulled away.

"Abby, I don't want to go back to wondering what you're thinking, watching from the sidelines. I just don't want that."

"Leave me alone, Carter."

"I don't want to walk away, Abby, but I will if I have to."

"Then go. I didn't ask you to come," she said coldly.

The only thing stronger than the pain he felt at that moment was his anger. Feelings for her flowed out of him like water down a drainpipe. _If this is who she still is, we don't have a chance, he thought._

The rain was steady now, the winds still fierce. He mustered the strength that his anger gave him—and he walked away.

Abby felt him leave, but could not bring herself to move. She stood there alone, and that's just how she felt.

Carter got in the limousine, closed the door, and rubbed his face in his hands.

"Everything OK, sir?" Alger asked.

"No."

"Are we waiting for Ms. Lockhart, sir?"

"No."

It was difficult to breathe. Carter felt like he was suffocating. "Alger, wait here for me. I need a walk." He grabbed an umbrella off the seat and opened the car door.

"In the rain, sir? I'd be glad to take you anywhere—"

"Just wait here, please. I need some air."

Carter walked with difficulty in the cold, hard rain. His side hurt, and he struggled to hold onto the umbrella in the punishing wind. He wove through tombstones and monuments, taking note of all the fathers, mothers, and children who rested peacefully together. Before he knew it, he had walked into another section of the cemetery. He recognized where he was. He kept walking until he reached a very large, white, marble family stone engraved with _CARTER._

He sat down on a soaking-wet marble bench near the tastefully manicured graves of his grandfather, Jonathan Truman Carter Sr., and his grandmother, Millicent Carter. Next to them were spaces for his parents and for him—and his wife. And then there was the small grave of his brother, marked and filled too early. It bore the simple words "Robert Carter" and listed the short years of his life.

And just in front of Bobby's grave, there was an even smaller one—a tiny rectangle of still-fresh earth where his baby lay.

Sitting there alone in the rain, his spirits almost as low as the day the infant died, Carter finally allowed the small voice of doubt to creep into his head—the voice that wondered if the little boy was indeed his son. Kem had a boyfriend, Peter, when she and Carter met. She revealed just the other day that her relationship with Peter had never really ended. Could the child that bears his name be another man's baby?

He would never know—he didn't really want to know. Carter watched this child be born, he gave him his name, and he buried him. And now he was lonely for him—he just wanted to hold something that would truly be his forever.

A rare late-autumn thunderclap was accompanied by a fierce gust of wind that turned his umbrella inside out and ripped it from his hands. And that's when he heard her.

"I missed the signs." It was Abby's voice in the distance over his shoulder. It was faint because she was shouting into the wind. He gathered his coat around his neck, stood up, and turned toward her.

He saw her perched up on a small hill, her coat flapping in the wind, jaw chattering from the cold, lips blue. Her hair and face were soaked as much from tears as from rain.

"I missed the signs that he needed help." She was crying. The steel face she wore before was not strong enough to hold back the wave of emotions she showed now.

He didn't speak.

"My brother came to talk to me, but I was too wrapped up in myself—"

She was swallowing mouthfuls of rain as she spoke.

"He needed me, but I was too busy thinking about—you. About you and me." She was shivering.

He didn't move. He just looked at her.

She was having trouble catching her breath. "I w-wasn't there f-for him—and look what he d-did."

He thought of resisting her. She had toyed with his emotions these last 24 hours. But in a brief Scrooge-like visit to the future, he pictured what his life would be like without her—and he couldn't bear it.

He opened his arms, and she flew into them, and he caught her and held her. Despite the stinging pain it caused in his fractured rib, he wasn't about to let her go.

"You couldn't help him this time, Abby. Nobody could."

The rain came down in sheets, the wind howled, the clouds raced across the sky, but he stood there with her face buried in his coat.

"I'm sorry for the way I acted," she said.

"It's OK," he said, rocking her.

"I don't want to feel this way anymore."

"I know."

"Don't be angry."

"I'm not."

"Promise me you'll never—"

"I promise."

_God, he needed her so much. Why did just the feel of her next him make everything better?_

"You're freezing." He took off his overcoat and swung it around her.

He glanced over at the roadway alongside the cemetery and saw Alger holding a large, black umbrella with the door to the limousine open, inviting them out of the rain.

He led her to the car and helped her in.

"I thought I asked you to stay put, Alger?"

"Forgive me for finding you, sir, but Ms. Lockhart looked like she needed to see you." And then he added softly, "I thought perhaps you needed her, too, sir."

"You did, did you?" he said, slightly amused by Alger's presumptuousness.

"Yes, sir. But Ms. Lockhart refused the umbrella, sir."

"That's because Ms. Lockhart is a pain in the—" He clamped his lips. "Stubborn," he said instead, loud enough for her to hear.

"Yes, sir."

He closed Abby in the car and came around to the driver's side.

"Alger—," Carter held out his hand.

"Sir?"

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, sir," he said, taking Carter's hand and shaking it.

"John."

"Sir?"

"I'm still John, Alger."

"Yes, John. Sir."

They smiled at each other.

The icy rain began to let up.

SEVERAL ER STAFFERS stopped by Abby's apartment that night to pay their respects. Those who couldn't—like Susan, who was home caring for her colicky baby—sent food and flowers. But they all couldn't leave soon enough for Abby.

When they were finally alone, Carter took off his suit jacket, laid it on her round wooden dining table, and moved over to the couch to sit close to her.

"Want to see a picture?" she asked. Abby pulled from her pocket a photo of a dirty-faced toddler with a mess of brown curly hair. He held the hand of a little girl with straight flowing hair and pretty, squinting brown eyes, and those unmistakable rosebud lips.

Carter smiled at the sight of her as a child. "You were beautiful. I wish I knew you then—but I'd have been too scared to talk to you."

"Lucky for you. I would have beaten you up on the playground every day."

"I bet you would have."

She touched the picture of her baby brother. "I could never keep his little face clean, no matter how hard I tried. Maggie never bothered, but I always tried."

He kissed the top of her head. "You were great with him."

"Not good enough."

"Abby, you gave him his childhood. Nobody else did that but you. You are going to be—"

"What?"

He swished his hand in the air, dismissing what he was about to say, and made a face that said "nothing."

"What?" she insisted.

"—a great mom."

She looked away from him. He wanted to kick himself for bringing up motherhood right then.

But a few moments later, he heard her say softly, "I wanted it to be me." She sounded sad and was careful not to look at him.

"What?"

"I was jealous . . . that Kem was . . . carrying your baby." She held the photo in one hand, but the fingers of the other picked at the fibers of the sofa so she wouldn't have to watch his face as she spoke. "As much as it scared me and everything . . . I wanted it to be me."

It was painful to watch Abby reveal her emotions. But when she did, it melted him instantly.

She tossed the photograph on the coffee table. "I don't know what to do without him, you know? It was always Eric and me _against the world_," she said, aware of the cliché. "But now it's just me alone." Her voice was sad. She curled up on the couch and leaned against him for comfort.

He sat for a while stroking her hair and planting small kisses on her forehead, and then he said suddenly, "How about some tea?"

She sat up. "Right now? OK, I guess."

"I've got to take off this tie," he said, fussing with his collar. He went in the bedroom, and she went to heat the water. While he was inside, Carter's pager rang in an annoying series of shrill beeps. He yelled from the bedroom, "Abby, can you check it? It's in my suit jacket on the table."

She lifted his jacket and as she reached into his pocket for the beeper, a tiny box came tumbling out. It was a box she'd seen before—a ring box. She picked it up and examined it, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him watching her from across the room. In his hand, he dangled the telephone from her bedroom—which he had just used to dial his own beeper.

"This time I'm not going to shout it at you on the roof . . ." He started toward her slowly.

It woke the butterflies in her stomach.

". . . and I'm not going to buy out a restaurant . . ." He moved closer.

She started trembling.

". . . and I'm definitely not going to make the mistake of letting you go again . . ."

She wasn't sure she was breathing.

". . . It's probably not appropriate to do this today, but I don't care. I don't want you going one more minute thinking that you are alone—because you're not—not anymore."

He reached her and took the box from her hand. He opened it and turned it toward her—it held the most beautiful diamond she'd ever seen.

"I want you to have this ring, Abby. It was my great-grandmother's. Gamma was keeping it for me. She said I should give it to whomever I want, and the only person I ever wanted to wear this ring was you."

"What about—"

"Hey—" He interrupted her gently and looked deep in her eyes. "The_ only_ person I have ever offered this ring to is _you_," he staunchly reaffirmed, holding her chin in his thumb and forefinger. "I want to marry you, Abby."

Despite being well rehearsed, he got a large lump in his throat when he said, "You are—"

He cleared his throat again before he could go on. He waited until he could say it without trembling. Still, it was little more than a choked whisper by the time it came out.

"You are the love of my life."

And he took the ring from the box and picked up her hand. Her fingers were clenched tightly in a fist of nerves. He slowly unfolded them one by one and held the diamond near the tip of her ring finger. But before he slipped it on, he looked at her, seeking her eyes for permission. Large tears welled up, and as she shook her head _yes_, they slipped from the confines of her lids and down her face. She looked at the ring on her finger, and then wound her arms around his waist.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"I'm thinking . . ."

"Yes?"

"I'm thinking . . ."

She buried her face in his sweater and finally spoke her deepest thoughts: _"Wi wo win wuh wi woo"_ was what he heard.

He laughed out loud. He reached down and hooked his fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face up to his.

Still chuckling, he asked, "_What _did you say?"

She wasn't laughing. It took all her strength to look him in the eye and say, "I said, 'I'm so in love with you.'"

Hearing the words and seeing her eyes glistening with emotion quite simply took his breath away.

Now she smiled, proud of herself.

He brought his mouth to her lips and whispered "I love you" between kisses.

She knew then she needed to feel him near her—all of him. With their lips locked, she unclenched her arms from around him and reached down and started unbuttoning her deep-gray blouse.

He pulled his lips away. "Are you sure?"

She nodded yes.

He moved her hands away from her shirt, and he finished unbuttoning it. He slid it off her arms and hugged her, kissing the side of her neck. His fingers unclasped the hooks of her satin bra, and he took off his own sweater so that he could feel her against his skin. He moved them to the couch, and he made love to her—slowly, intensely, deeply—like it was the first time they were ever together.

Carter fell asleep with Abby's head on his chest, his lips buried in her hair. But she lay awake with her cheek against his skin and his ring near her face. She stared at her hand for a long time, trying to take in everything that had happened to her over the past few days.

She looked over at the photo on the coffee table. The girl in the picture stared back at her—the sad little girl who never really was a child, who would cry in the bathroom with the faucet running so no one would hear. They stared at each other, she and the little girl in the photo, until Abby said to her: "Everything's going to be OK."

Abby's past died that day. She buried it in a box along with her beloved brother. But also on that day, her future was born. And she was ready for it.

WHEN CARTER AWOKE a little later, Abby was already dressed. "Come on," she said. "I don't want to eat any more funeral food. Let's go get some coffee, Dr. Carter."

"Deal," he said, stepping into his pants. He glanced at her hand and felt proud that she was wearing his ring, proud of _her_. A thought came to him: "I guess after we're married, you'll be Dr. Carter, too," he realized, pulling his sweater over his head.

"Oh brother, I didn't think of that," she said while running a brush through her hair and tying it into a quick ponytail.

"Well," he said, "how about I'll be Dr. Carter, and you can be _'Dr. Abby,'_" he teased as he slipped into his shoes.

"No way! You've been Dr. Carter long enough; let somebody else have a turn," she said as she grabbed for her coat.

"Forget it!" He put his arms in his jacket.

"Then I'll stay Dr. Lockhart," she said, folding her scarf around her neck.

"After we're married? Your ex-husband's name? Now you're acting crazy," he said as he swung open the door.

She stepped out before him and spun around in the threshold to face him. "Then maybe we ought to rethink this whole 'getting married' thing," she teased.

"No way!" he said, kissing her on the head and shoving her out the door.

They could be heard bickering out in the hall, down the stairs, and out into the snowy Chicago night.

THE END

_Once upon a time, there was a rich, handsome prince and a beautiful peasant girl. They met and fell in love and lived happily every after—once they learned what "love" meant._


End file.
